


All Hearts Are Broken

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Angst, M/M, Mpreg, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:12:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All lives end.<br/>All hearts are broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes considered himself to be one of the most fortunate people in the country. He had a job he loved that allowed him to protect the country he loved. He had a small personal fortune that allowed him to live comofrtably. He had a brother who was clean and sober for the longest period since his teens. He had a handsome and kind partner who was currently smiling across the table at him in a dazed sort of way. And he had something else.

'A baby?' Gregory Lestrade repeated.

Mycroft nodded. Some of those things on his list were things he'd always known would be his, and some were things he never thought he'd ever have. And both the man opposite him and the news he had just shared belonged in the latter category.

Mycroft Holmes knew he was a fortunate man.

'Are you sure?'

He nodded again, watching Gregory carefully, studying his reactions, seeing each thought and emotion as it passed across his face.

Gregory, he realised with a start, wasn't happy.

He was scared.

Mycroft pushed down a surge of worry as he continued to deduce what his partner was thinking. Their ages. That was a worry for Mycroft as well, he had to admit. But there was more. Their jobs. Their lifestyle. The dangers. The distractions a child would cause. The target that child could become. The newness of their relationship, regardless of how long they had known each other. The fact that they were still working out how they felt about each other.

Gregory said none of those things. He knew he didn't have to.

#

A bomb in Whitehall. Two MI6 agents killed. Seventeen civilians.

The information had all been there. The signs had all been there.

But Mycroft had missed them because he'd been too preoccupied interviewing midwives and thinking about Gregory's reaction.

He sat in his office long after everyone else had left, the lights off and his mood sombre. He was responsible for those deaths. He had let his mind drift, his attention elsewhere and so mistakes had been made. Things had been missed.

It was his fault.

#

Greg had been trying to call Mycroft for hours but his phone went straight to answer machine. In desperation he called Anthea, who simply informed him that Mr Holmes was not available at the moment before hanging up. He was starting to lose patience when he recieved a call from John.

#

'What do you mean 'complications'?' he frowned at the smaller man, who pressed his lips together, his eyes creased, 'Is he okay?'

Before John could answer, a door opened behind them and Sherlock strode out, stopping when he spotted Lestrade. For once he said nothing, just stared, and it was that second that true panic gripped at the DI. Without thinking he pushed past Sherlock into the room, where Mycroft was sitting by the window, a blanket pulled tightly around him, face paler than usual. He didn't look at Greg as he entered, but Greg could see his reflection clearly in the dark window.

'Myc? Are you okay?'

'Fine. Just a few minor complications with the procedure. It will heal over time.'

'Procedure?' he swallowed, 'And the-'

Mycroft shook his head, not taking his gaze away from the window. He felt flat and emotionanless and he still he didn't move, not even when he saw the expression of Gregory's face reflected back at him.

Greg stopped, unable to take another step, and unsure what to do.

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. I made a choice.'

Greg's heart dropped to his stomach and he suddenly felt colder than he'd ever been.

'...What?'

'Don't sound so surprised. It wasn't planned. You didn't want it. I didn't want it,' Mycroft paused for the smallest fraction of a second, 'And I don't want you.'

Greg's legs threatened to give way beneath him, and there was a roaring in his ears, so loud he almost missed what Mycroft said next.

'It was just a fling, and now it's over.'

'Myc-' Greg choked as the room spun.

'I have nothing more to say. Good evening Detective Inspector.'

Before the DI could say anything else, hands gripped his arms and he was led from the room and along the corridor, past John and Sherlock, who both watched him, John with sympathy, and Sherlock with a strange, thoughtful look he'd never seen before.

#

Mycroft stared out across the dark city, across the unseen millions of people who would never know what he had given up for them, what hearts had been broken so he could devote himself instead to protecting them.

All lives end.

All hearts are broken.


	2. Chapter 2

Two years later...

Once there was a man and for a little while he was happy. For a little while he had everything. Until the moment he realised that it was impossible to have everything and be everything without consequence. And so that man made a choice. He gave up all the selfish things and focused instead on his duties and his obligations and other people. He put himself last once again and his heart was broken.

#

Two years after Mycroft Holmes broke his heart, Gregory Lestrade was still reeling. Occassionally he would spot the man on the edges of a crime scene, or striding through the offices at Scotland Yard and he would have to turn away and compose himself, struck by how painful just the sight of the other man was, and he had to remind himself of Mycroft's words. The elder Holmes couldn't have made it any clearer. He didn't want Greg. He didn't want the baby. It had just been a fling.  
A fling.

#

When it was necessary for Mycroft Holmes to visit the Yard, or a crime scene, he pretended he couldn't see the Detective Inspector. He pretended that he wasn't aware of the man's every move and breath. He pretended that he didn't notice the admiring looks Gregory recieved, and subsequnet swoop of jealousy that would burn in his stomach for hours, or that he was wearing his hair shorter and it suited him. He pretended he didn't know that Gregory had started smoking again. He pretended that he didn't see the hurt in those brown eyes on the rare occassions when they flcikered in his direction, and he pretended that his own heart wasn't still in pieces.   
It was just easier.

#

Greg used to keep the blinds of his office open so he could see what was happening, but after unexpectedly spotting Mycroft on his way to the Super's office, Greg started keeping the blinds closed. Which is why he didn't know that Mycroft was walking across the main office, and why he didn't see the near collision with Dimmock, or hear the muffled expletive as Mycroft straightened his coat. And it's why it was a surprise when of the sergents knocked on his door a couple of hours later and handed him a wallet.  
'You dropped that in the office.'  
'That's not mine,' Greg barely glanced at it.  
'Got your driving licence in it well.'  
It was curiosity that made him open it, frowning. Sure enough, there was his driving licence. But it was his old one. One that he'd had to replace when he'd lost it.  
He looked through the rest of the contents. There was almost a thousand pounds in cash, and a black Mastercard with no name on it. Greg sighed as he fingered the soft leather. Only one person he knew would have a wallet like that. He was about to call for a courier to take it back when he noticed something else, pushed down behind his driving licence. Pulling it out he dropped the wallet on the table and just stared at the slip of card on which was written the date of the worst day of his life.

#

Mycroft looked up briefly when the shouting started, although shouting in his office wasn't unusual, not in a building which contained the most powerful men in the country and on occassion had the potential to also contain Sherlock. He wasn't expecting for the door to his own office to be flung open.  
'Do you know how I know it wasn't a fling?' a voice demanded, and a hand slammed something down on Mycroft's desk.  
'Gregory?'  
'Because, if it was just a fling then you wouldn't have stolen my driving licence.'  
'I didn't-'  
'It's in your wallet Myc!'  
Mycroft flinched at the shout, both because of the noise and because no one else had called him that name in over two years. It was a name he never expected to hear from the DI again. He looked up at him for the first time, taking in the changes, noting the new lines around the eyes.  
'You left it behind one night,' Mycroft said quietly.  
'You could have sent it back if you didn't want to see me yourself.'  
'It was the only photo I had.'   
In the silence that followed Mycroft's statement, neither men looked away from the other, as if their gaze could say all the things they wanted to.   
'And the...the other thing?'  
Mycroft closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath, but before he could speak, Greg started talking again, his voice still full of hurt and anger, but softer now.  
'Because you know what I think? I think you keep them for the same reason as I keep this,' he opened his own wallet and set a small card down on the desk between them. On it was a handwritten number in elegant black script. No name.   
Mycroft stared at it.  
'You could have just given me one of your cards, but you didn't. You took the time to write it out yourself. And you don't do that. In all the years I've known you. Hell, even your own brother got one of your business cards. So I have to ask why didn't I? What made me different. And you know, the only answer I can come up with it is that you did that for the same reason I kept it. For the same reason that you stole my driving licence, and the same reason you are still carrying around the appointment card from...from...' he stopped, clearly unable to finish the sentance.  
'From the day I had an abortion,' Mycroft didn't mean his voice to sound so cold, but he'd spent so long shutting himself off from his feelings that he was scared of opening them up again. Still, it pained him to see Gregory flinch at the bluntness of his words.  
'Sometimes I get why they call you the Iceman.' he forced, his teeth clenched together.  
Gregory scooped up the piece of paper and started to leave the room. He paused with his hand on the door and took a deep breath, his shoulders rounded as though he were in pain.  
Tell him, a voice inside Mycroft screamed, knowing he would never get another chance.  
Before Mycroft could form the words, Gregory was gone again, the door swinging open in his wake. Mycroft didn't stare after him. He just closed his eyes, dropping his head into his hands and willing the ache in his chest to stop.  
All hearts are broken.


	3. Chapter 3

Two years ago...

When John was called up to Mycroft's room he was expecting to deal with a poisoning,stabbing or the consequences of another attempt on his life. The politican was refusing to see anyone else now. John was met outside the door by another doctor, who looked grave as he handed over Mycroft's charts.  
'How'd his scan go? Everything alright?'  
The watched John but said nothing as John glanced down the chart, stopping with a start when he was halfway down.   
'Oh,' was all he said, and then he straightened up, pulling himself together, 'Complications ...reaction to sedation, some bleeding...bleeding?'  
The other doctor nodded, 'He'll have some internal scaring, but it shouldn't cause him any trouble in the long term if he wishes to try again.'  
Flicking through the rest of the pages, his frown only deepened. John tried to separate John The Friend from John The Doctor before thanking his colleague and letting himself into Mycroft's room.  
The man was sitting on the chair with his back to the door, a blanket around him, his posture slumped and his face emotionless. The only indication that he had been effected at all by the experience was the redness of his eyes which stood out on his pale face.  
'Mycroft?'  
There was no response from the red haired man and John tried again.  
'Look, It's none of my business and I'm not going to judge you. It's your body. How did...how did Greg take it?'  
The silence stretched on until John graoned.  
'You did tell him? Discussed this with him?'  
He never got an answer because at that moment Sherlock stepped into the room, took one look at John and then Mycroft. John could see the warning signs, and he put a hand out to hold his friend back just as he started shouiting.  
'You are so selfish! he hissed into his brother's ear. But Mycroft didn't flinch, just continued to stare blankly out the window.  
John steered Sherlock out into the corridor where Greg was running to meet them. Sherlock strode away, his own emotions thick in the air, and John wanted to run after him, but he needed to talk to Greg first, needed to prepare him, at least a little.  
He took a deep breath and turned to look at his friend.

 

Now...

Time went on and things were almost the same. To anyone looking in from outside, life went on as normal. But sharp eyes could spot the cracks and the black clouds. Greg was working as much overtime as he could to try and keep his mind busy. Mycroft spent more time out of the country than in it, while John and Sherlock struggled through their day to days with the usual chaos but little of the old amusement.  
Sherlock rarely played his violin and it sat dusty and unloved. He spent more time staring into space and had started to lapse into long silences that could often stretch for days at a time. On those rare occassions when he actually came to bed, he waited until John was already asleep, and was gone again before the doctor woke.  
John didn't know what to do about the tension in the flat. It was consuming everything and he was terrified of saying something that would cause the delicate panes to shatter and release something they couldn't get over.  
He'd tried talking to Sherlock about it, but the other man was very quick to shut him down, change the subject or, more often that not, leave the room, and sometimes the flat. John knew what was on Sherlock's mind, and he knew exactly what it stemmed from, what moment, and he knew that there was nothing he could do to fix it.  
He saw the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed when he saw pregnant omegas or small babies, and he knew that Sherlock had been in Mycroft's company only once in two years and that had been on the insistance of their mother who had invited them all around for Christmas dinner and was quite confused when Sherlock fled the house just after starters, jaw set against the tears already threatening to spill over.  
Until that point it had been an uneasy afternoon as it was, and in an effort to lift the tone of the conversation Mummy had asked John, 'So when can I expect grandchildren?'  
There was a clatter as Sherlock dropped his fork in his haste to get away. John stood to follow him, already voicing apologies to the Holmes' while Mycroft just stared down at his plate.  
Sherlock had been silent all the way home and once back at the flat he went straight to his violin and picked it up, but he didn't play it, he just stood there for hours, staring out the window with it in his hands as John moved silently about the flat, present if he was needed, but not intervering.  
It was almost midnight before either of them spoke and John was just about to make another cup of tea when Sherlock's voice drifted through the flat.  
'John?'  
It sounded so broken that John wanted to throw his arms around him and pull him close, but he knew that Sherlock would not appreciate that, so he simply went to his side and took his arm, steering him towards the bedroom and helping him get undressed. Then he watched over him as Sherlock fell immediately into an exhausted sleep.  
And that was the last time either of them acknowledged it.   
Until one day Sherlock went too far at the Yard...

#

Sherlock rarely came to the Yard anymore by unspoken agreement. It was agreed by all that he wasn't really a people person and his particular personality probably shouldn't be unleased in a building where everyone was armed. But he'd needed cases and it had been months since he made anyone cry, so John had deemed it a relatively risk free outing.  
How wrong could he be?  
Sherlock froze as he stepped out of the lift, his strange eyes sweeping across the room, the furrow in his brow getting deeper, and the hand at his side clenching slightly. Only John knew him well enough to spot his tells, and he squared his shoulders, stepping closer to him, glad he could already see Greg leaning over a desk at the other end of the office.  
'Sherlock,' he said quietly.  
But Sherlock was already making his way across the office, jaw clenched as he focused on Greg. It was with a sinking heart that John realised the desk Greg was standing at belonged to Sally Donovan. She glared up at them.  
'Hello, Freak.'  
'Sally-' Greg started a dangerous tone in his voice.  
'Why do we have to work with him?'  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, 'On the plus side, Sally, you won't have to work with me for long.'  
She smirked at him, 'Gonna jump for real this time?'  
'Going to book your maternity leave?' there was a sneer in his voice that did nothing to disguise the hurt there too.  
Sally Donovan paled, and John was aware that everyone around them had gone silent. But now that Sherlock had started, months of repressed emotion came spilling out.  
'Let's just hope you're a better mother than you are police officer. It's a shame Anderson can't count very well or he'd have figured out that it's not his. No, infact it's far more likely that Anderson is the father of Inspector Leavey's baby over there given there recent jaunts together.'  
All eyes turned to Inspector Leavey, who flushed red and struggled for something to say. But Sherlock had already moved on.  
'Don't look so sactimonious Patterson, not when you spent your tea break on your knees for Sergent Owen, I expect you'll be single now judging by the way Gregson is staring at you, four years you've been together, right? But I wouldn't expect a relationship with Own, he's got a wife that he'll not leave.' Sherlock turned to look at Greg then, 'What is it with you people? This is why there is so much crime, everyone in your office is one massive hormonal mess,' he kicked out hard sending a chair skittering across the room, 'Affairs and babies everywhere you look.' he waved his hand towards Sally, 'Even for those who don't deserve them.'  
And then he was gone again, leaving a shock silence in his wake, punctured only by Leavey's sobs. Greg went to follow him, but John put a hand on his arm to hold him back.  
'Not yet,' he said.  
Greg ran his hands over his face and then through his hair, causing it to stick up even more. He looked at John with concern and confusion.  
'What was all that about?'  
Behind them the shouting started as Gregson reached Owen's desk. Two other officers stepped into to try and separate them while Sally made a bolt for the bathroom.  
'Let's get a coffee,' John said, 'And I'll explain.'

#

'Sherlock can't have kids,' John's tone was shockingly conversational but it did nothing to lessen the impact of his words, 'I just thought you should be aware of that before you start telling him that he doesn't know what he's talking about.'  
'I...I didn't know.'  
John sniffed and set his cup back down.   
'Yeah, well, turns out there really is a limit to the amount of drugs one person can take. Of course, years of basically starving himself didn't help either,' John sighed and refused to look at Greg, 'We were trying, you know.'  
'No, I didn't know.'  
'Three years.'  
John paused to let his words sink in for a moment.  
'You were....when Mycroft...?'  
John just nodded.  
'I didn't know.'  
'You've been saying that a lot this afternoon.'  
'Does Myc know?'  
John actually smiled, 'This is Mycroft we're talking about.'  
Greg looked down at his cup and then back up at John, 'I'm sorry.'  
'It's not your fault,' John tried to keep the tremor out of his voice, 'It's just one of those things.'  
'And you've tried-'  
'Everything, yeah.' John pressed his lips together, singalling that he wasn't about to discuss that at the moment.  
'Shit,' Greg breathed out, trying to take it in. His mind replaying Sherlock's reactions over the last couple of years, the cases he refused, the people he avoided, his moods...he tried to comprehend the pain Sherlock must have felt over Mycroft and how it must have been a stab in the chest every time someone else announced their happy news. What must it be like to want something so badly and to have to stand back and watch as everyone else got it...or got rid of it like it meant nothing.  
Greg closed his eyes, filled with grief for John and Sherlock, for himself, but also for Mycroft. Mycroft who never made a decision lightly, that was one thing that Greg had come to terms with over the last two years, whatever the reasons for Mycroft's decision, he'd thought it through first. He'd have done it knowing that, no matter how right it was, that he was going to inadvertently hurt the one person he cared about most in the world. Sherlock. He would never have done that lightly, and Greg him well enough to know that the guilt he felt would not be over the baby, it would be over his brother, and it would be eating him alive.  
John went back to Baker Street in a sombre mood, and Greg returned to his office, ignoring the war that was still raging outisde the glass walls. He sat behind his desk, staring at his phone for a long time, and when he picked it up his hands were shaing so hard he could barely dial the number.  
It ran twice before it was picked up.  
'Hello?' the voice on the other end was clipped and professional, but tinged with tiredness.  
Greg smiled.  
'It's me.'  
There was a pause, and Greg thought he'd been hung up on. But then the voice spoke again, and this time there was actual happiness in the tone.  
'Hello Gregory.'

All hearts are broken....


End file.
